


i used to be a king alone

by Jagged



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Dog Samot, Extremely Self-Indulgent Dog Content, Gen, M/M, Secret Samol 2017, feat Samol and Maelgwyn but not enough for individual tags, snapshots of relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 17:53:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13217874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jagged/pseuds/Jagged
Summary: Relationships are all about compromise. Also, dogs.





	i used to be a king alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imperialhare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialhare/gifts).



> Secret Samol for linda imperialhare, who wanted domestic samsam and who I hope will like this as much as I enjoyed writing it, this is as close to fluff as I can get!! Title taken from No Rest by Dry the River.

 

It’s months after their first meeting that it happens: a flicker of movement at the corner of his vision, a shadow lingering by the door to the workshop. Samothes keeps his eyes on the blade he holds, searches for the shape he wants to bring out of the heated metal. His hammer falls down in a crackle of sparks. Again, and again, white sliding through reds and oranges to grey, edges beaten thin under his hands.

There’s a satisfaction to it, the burning of raw things into a proper shape. Satisfaction, too, in the shifting of light behind him as Samot steps into the room, the daring in his eyes as he curls his hand above Samothes’, unfurls his fingers from the hammer. The forge streaks his hair ochre and wild.

“You promised me a party,” he says.

“Oh,” Samothes says, taking measure of the ache in his muscles that speaks of time getting away from him once again. “I did.” He turns, leaving his tools on the anvil, and Samot steps back with him, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“You know, Primo said you might not even notice anyone coming in. I suppose I should be flattered you did.” Samot laughs, teasing and just a little sharp, and Samothes only smiles in answer, lets him lead them out. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, now that he is away from his work.

Maybe it’s this that causes him to not notice right away that Samot is not following him back to his room, but rather skillfully herding him towards the great hall. A susurrus of music and voices skitters to them despite the distance yet to cover, and he looks to Samot, frowning. “I wasn’t busy that long, surely. You didn’t —”

Samot smiles, teeth gleaming. “I took the liberty of starting without you.”

“And Primo helped?”

“His idea as much as mine, really.”

A vague sense of betrayal drifts through him. Not even a warning! and he looks down at himself, suddenly realizing: “I can’t go in wearing this —” 

Samot tugs Samothes’ shirt back in place from where he’d slid it off for comfort sometime during his work, adjusts his collar. His fingers are cool against Samothes’ skin, and his eyes gleam like a cat’s. “God-King Samothes come from his work to his people? No, don’t worry. Nobody will say anything,” he says. It sounds as much a reassurance as it sounds a threat. Then he smiles again, danger smoothed away. “And in any case — they’ll be too busy looking at me.” 

The noise gets louder. Samot pushes the doors open, then he winks at Samothes and marches in. From somewhere in the crowd Primo is calling for them. People turn, and it’s true that most of them let their eyes linger on Samot, follow as he cuts through the room, a handsome, strange prince come to take the regard he is due. 

And if, throughout the night, Samothes’ eyes are among those as well, Samot certainly does not seem to mind.

 

*

 

He knows, of course, of the wolf, heard and caught more glimpses over the weeks. He did not, however, expect to find it here. The long muzzle is tucked between two pillows, half of the tail disappears under the mess that has been made of the blankets. A rounded ear twitches when Samothes steps closer. 

“Samot?” 

A paw curls, claws catching in the sheets. A pair of very blue eyes open to look up at Samothes, blinking sleep away. 

Samothes sorts through several options for his next question. First things first: “Why are you in my bed?” 

“It’s a very good bed,” the wolf rumbles. Samothes concedes this point (“Thank you, I made it myself”), but feels it rather lacking, as far as answers go.

Samot crosses his paws, lifting his head to better meet Samothes’ eyes. “I wanted to speak to you in private.” 

Oh. He mirrors Samot, arms crossing over his chest. Part of him wants to get closer, drag his fingers through the thick golden fur of Samot’s throat, the same part that makes his heart quicken under the weight of Samot’s eyes on him. It’s a strange, not entirely unwelcome feeling. It used to feel stranger still. 

But then Samot says: “I thought we could talk, about the school I mentioned —” 

“No.” 

The wolf’s jaws snap shut. Samothes expects a fight from this shape, thinks this must be why — but the blue eyes avert to the side, a shadow momentarily deepening them to purple. “I thought you might say that.” Samot sighs a canine’s heavy sigh, and drops his head back onto the pillows. 

 _You are still in my bed_ , Samothes wants to point out when a minute has passed and Samot hasn’t moved or tried to say anything else, only that feels… gauche, somehow, so instead he pretends this is a completely normal occurence and crosses the room to put down his latest notes and plans, tries to remember what he came back to do in the first place. 

“Why the wolf shape, then?” he asks eventually, when it becomes clear Samot is not inclined to leave just yet and the silence weighs uneasy on him. 

“Have you never wanted to be something other than yourself?” asks the wolf. Stretched across the sheets, the last spears of sunlight streaking over his coat from the high windows, his form seems to shimmer. 

“No,” Samothes says again, kinder this time. Samot huffs. 

“Of course not. That’s your problem, really. A tragic lack of flexibility.” 

“You’d be surprised,” he says before he can think. Heat rises in his face as the wolf stares, and suddenly he’s laughing, white teeth and that pink, pink mouth open wide, and Samothes can see the boy underneath the beast, the beautiful endless hunger that he should but doesn’t fear.

 

*

 

There are deep, dark clouds gathering over the horizon, and electricity on the air. This week the whims of reconfiguration have the balcony face northward, and the way Samot keeps coming back to stare at the horizon suggests he might be thinking about returning to the roll and swell of his plains. 

That, and the way he keeps complaining about the heat. 

“Maybe if you didn’t wander around with black fur,” Samothes tells him, and Samot glares but shifts, coal black to silver grey to snow white. He’s a heavy weight at Samothes’ feet, and despite the whining and grumbling it’s rather nice having company, even when said company often as not has four paws and a wet nose. At least he is considerate enough to have made himself smaller than a regular wolf. 

“I can’t believe I married a man who built a city somewhere it never even snows.” 

“A grievous mistake,” Samothes agrees, not looking up from his maps. Marielda always shifts agreeably when he wants it to, but the library will be new, different; he needs to find a good place for it. Safe, he’s thinking, but maybe not too accessible. 

“Why haven’t you invented me something to keep cool yet?” 

“You never asked.” 

Samot pushes his muzzle under the papers, shoves until Samothes has little choice but to look at him. One of his ears stays caught behind in the papers, makes his head lopsided and somehow even more endearing than usual. His eyes are mournful. “I’m asking now.” 

Underground might work. He hasn’t done a lot of work like that. Space and quiet, but he’s not sure Samot would like that so much. Still, he reaches over and scribbles a note in the margin of the plans, dodging the cranky snap of jaws at his fingers. Only when that’s done does he let his hand drop to Samot’s head, rubbing at the soft fur along his cheek. Samot’s eyes go half-lidded with pleasure. 

“We could always rewrite seasons,” Samothes offers. 

“How about moving the entire city? Closer to… Nacre, say.” 

“You said the wine from here was fine.” 

“It’s not _Nacre_ wine.” 

“Marielda stays where it is,” he declares before Samot gets any deeper into that idea. 

“Oh fine. Seasons it is, I’ll hold you to it.” Thus satisfied, Samot leans up to lick his face then retreats. 

There’s a storm building that they can both feel from the heaviness of the air, the curl of wind that threatens the loose sheets of paper Samothes set aside. Easier to catch them with fingers than teeth or paws: Samot shifts back to two feet, darts after his prize. He’ll sort the pages later, put them away neat and orderly and Samothes won’t be able to find them again, but that’s alright. His eyes gleam storm-blue and bright, and Samothes suspects he won’t miss the monsoon too much when it’s gone.

 

*

 

When fall starts to spread its colors into the woods Samot takes to following the children outside, carrying a book or three, scarves and snacks and the vast reservoir of his patience. Inside the walls is for the most part Samothes’ domain, his work scattered over every surface that Samot grudgingly agreed to leave untouched no matter the mess.

The small garden they share. Before the weather turns too unpleasant Samothes takes the projects he can out, and that’s where Samol finds him braiding leather for the handle of Maelgwyn’s first sword. There’s benches, nice seats, some cushions here and there even, but Samol seems happy enough on the damp grass, making small talk and tuning his guitar while Samothes continues his work. It brings back memories of when he was younger, comfortable hours spent each doing their own thing, together. 

It’s not long, anyway, until everyone comes home. The sun low over the trees paints the world orange and gold, and Samol grins when the howl echoes to them.

“Been a while since I’ve seen him like this,” he tells Samothes, and looks pleased. It turns to delight when they come into sight, though Samothes almost misses it, too busy making the same face at the tableau they make. 

It’s like this: Maelgwyn and his friend perched on top of Samot’s back, windswept and red-faced and half-asleep from the look of it; Samot larger than any wolf has the right to be, his thick coat a blinding white, carefully padding over stone and roots to not jostle them. His tail curls over his back, but it wags when he catches sight of Samol. 

“Well, would you look at that!” Samol’s smile is fond and sly, slanted towards Samothes. “Never thought I’d see the day, Samot all domesticated. But I suppose if anyone could have it would be you.” 

“What?” Samothes says. Then he looks again, remembering days long past now: the wolf on his bed, the shadow at the corner of his vision, wonders how he missed the change. Across the field Samot bends to let the children slip off his back, noses at their messy hair like he would like nothing more than to groom them back into looking proper. There’s a glint about his head: Maelgwyn must have slipped the circlet off himself and onto him again. 

“I think,” Samothes says as he watches boy and girl and dog running, setting sun watchful at their backs, “he domesticated himself.” 

Samol hums, deep and pleased, under his breath. “That’s how love works, isn’t it? All about the give and take.” 

There is a school now in Marielda, and the library beside, and in the corners of Samothes’ blueprints sometimes neat notes left by Samot’s hand. They make a fire that night in the garden, and Maelgwyn asks for stories and myths and song after song in the warm dark, Samol’s best and favorite audience. Samot’s head rests on Samothes’ lap, and he closes his teeth around Samothes’ hand when he reaches down to stroke — a steady, gentle pressure, fangs careful not to break skin, the great hunger always there but kept in check.

“You could stay a wolf, you know.”

Samot releases him. His teeth and eyes are sharp and bright.

“I know,” he says. “But with you I don't want to.”


End file.
